Yesterday morning I had a slight fever. Not much, a hundred point three. Not high enough it sends you to bed, but the kind of fever that slows down time.
I watched two squirrels chasing each other, up and around the big oak tree. They circled the top and came back down again. Sometimes the bigger one was leading the chase. Then he would stop and the other, smaller squirrel, would have his turn at being the leader, and I witnessed several unhindered and peaceful transitions, as if the old maxim about absolute power was innate rodent wisdom.
In the afternoon, it rained for almost an hour. I sat in the sunroom, where the sliding glass door always sticks. There’s lots of trees in our backyard, and the rain made a sound like a thousand cymbals.
When the sun came out, on the sliding glass door I saw a spider. Spinning, tirelessly, and dots of rain sparkled, making the web look like filigree. Like an antique mirror you catch yourself in.
The air last night was new autumn crisp and long after dinner I walked outside. The moon was full. The brightest moon I’ve ever seen. There’s a paved walkway where the front porch ends and the moon was so bright it made shadows at midnight.
A hundred point three. Not quite two degrees; I stood in moon shadows and envied a spider, and I had to learn what squirrels already know.
Charles Manson once said, you eat meat with your teeth, and you kill things that are better than you.
Manson was sick. So was I.
The fever passed.
In a way, I miss it.